


te acordarás de mí

by christinefromsherwood



Series: 007 Fest 2019 [16]
Category: James Bond (Classic movies)
Genre: Bond is wearing a kilt, Gen, Lazenby Bond, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Tango, There are knife shoes, With a Henchwoman, it is crack-ish, of sorts, set in that Blofeld anti-allergy clinic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 18:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: “And now, Sir Hilary, you must allow us to show you another integral part of our healing program!” Fräulein Bunt’s voice rang in Bond’s ear like a particularly loud brass-instrument.His eye-lids—which had begun to droop as he listened to Drumstick Girl (he thought her name was Ruby… or Molly, or Feeffee, one of those) drone on about her Traumatizing Chicken Encounters of the Years 1961-1965—snapped open at the sound.Bond looked around and noticed that the girls had begun to rise from their reclining positions on the sofas and were moving towards the more open area of the room.





	te acordarás de mí

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Venstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/gifts).



> For the collab prompt table and **Ven** , who prompted me with: _TANGO SCENE CHRISTINE - TANGO WANGO TANGO - TANGO BOND AND THE HENCHWOMAN OR VILLAIN - I WANT A WEIRD PAIRING - AND THERE'S LIKE VILLAINOUS MONOLOGUING HAPPENING_  
>  and can you give the henchwoman little gun heels like thiss...or literal dagger stillettos!!?? 
> 
> Well, I did what I could :D :D There is a tango, it is definitely weird. The knife shoes aren't as literal, sadly, nor is there much monologuing. There is some coversation, and it is very dramatic, so I hope you like it at least a bit, Ven :)
> 
> I had so much fun writing this, thank you for the prompt.

“And now, Sir Hilary, you must allow us to show you another integral part of our healing program!” Fräulein Bunt’s voice rang in Bond’s ear like a particularly loud brass-instrument.

His eye-lids—which had begun to droop as he listened to Drumstick Girl (he thought her name was Ruby… or Molly, or Feeffee, one of those) drone on about her _Traumatizing Chicken Encounters of the Years 1961-1965_ —snapped open at the sound.

Bond looked around and noticed that the girls had begun to rise from their reclining positions on the sofas and were moving towards the more open area of the room.

“Indeed, it seems that I must,” Bond said, nearly slipping up on the accent. He wished he had paid more attention to what Fräulein Bunt and one of Blofeld’s henchmen had been talking about.

The Fräulein got to her feet; Bond rose as well, smoothing down his kilt as he went. He did not like the look on her face at all.

Then he noticed one or two of the girls starting to make their way towards him.

They were trying to be inconspicuous in their approach, but Drumstick Girl was in the lead, and the others had definitely started gaining on her. It was just the three, or four of them. The rest were giving excited and expectant looks to one another.

“Come, Sir Hilary,” said the Fräulein and made an impatient motion with her hands, a sort of an abrupt, Swiss “come hither” gesture. “I believe it is proper for the host to honour the guest with the first dance.”

He blinked at her.

“That is the proper etiquette, is it not?!” The Fräulein’s beady eyes were staring at him expectantly.

Bond… wasn’t sure. He’d been sent down from Eton before they got to the lesson on who the fake peer of the realm should dance with first thing in the evening when in a Swiss sanatorium/villainous lair.

He nodded, and began to surreptitiously look around for Blofeld. Perhaps he could use this dance as an opportunity to interrogate the villain on his motivation and plans.

Then _La Cumparsita_ began to play loudly from the ceiling.

_Huh, hidden speakers. Interesting._

The Drumstick Girl was almost upon him and Bond didn’t have time for this! He turned his head more openly in search for the glare of the villain’s bald head.

_Now where was he…_

“ERM-ERM-ERRRR!”

_Christ!_

Bond had to use his considerable powers of spy-craft not to jump two feet in the air.

During his moment of blind panic, Fräulein Bunt had somehow managed to transport herself directly in front on him, where she was now standing with her eyebrows raised expectantly and her hand ready at the perfect angle to take his arm.

“I also believe that in the case when the host is absent, it is the lady of the highest standing to whom falls this honour, yes?”

The final _yes_ was said with just enough stress on the German accent to sound truly threatening.

_Was that… was that a rose?! In her other hand?!_

There was nothing for it, Bond needed to act quickly, and perhaps this henchwoman knew more about Blofeld’s operation than it seemed.

He offered her his arm and led her towards the impromptu dance floor. In the center there were Rice Girl and Potato Girl clinging to each other, striding across the floor on their stiletto heels in the traditional tango step.

Bond surreptitiously checked the Fräulein’s footwear. Luckily, from what little of her feet her long skirts showed, she seemed to be wearing shoes on a sensibly low heel.

_Thank Christ!_

Suddenly, the Fräulein stopped in her tracks and Bond was forced to halt as well.

He reached for her hand and waist in the reluctant, yet practiced way he felt was appropriate for his image of a genealogist.

_Should he lea-_

A strong hand against his shoulder blade pushed him to the left, into the first step of the dance.

“It is Mr. de Bleuchamp’s strong belief that it is the medium of dance which best facilitates the release of repressed desires, Sir Hilary,” the Fräulein informed Bond through gritted teeth – the rose firmly in her mouth – as she led him around the floor.

“Indeed,” Bond answered haltingly, according to his role.

The Fräulein twirled them in the rhythm of the accordion; Bond’s kilt rose as it flared around his thighs.

“And does Mr. de Bleuchamp also like to take part in his procedures? Or has he already satisfied all of his heart’s desires?”

A bit on the nose perhaps, but Bond felt it would not be remiss to play up his alter ego’s infatuation with his host.

The knowing look Fräulein Bunt gave him over the long-stem rose clenched in her teeth would be enough to disconcert a less experienced agent.

So would the way the woman suddenly twisted her neck, tilting her face upwards, and offered him the flower with all of her teeth on show.

Bond was painfully aware of the fact that he had seen many a production of Hamlet where poor Yorick’s grinning skull looked more appealing. Still, it was his duty. Never mind that he was currently on leave, he still considered himself to be firmly on Her Majesty’s secret service.

Bond didn’t close his eyes, but he did think of England, as he lowered his head closer to the intimidating maw and the no-less threatening thorns.

As he took the rose delicately in his mouth, and let himself be jerked in the other direction, Fräulein Bunt opened her mouth to answer his question.

“Mr. de Bleuchamp has means other than dance to get what he wants,” she said. Her grin took on a decidedly evil appearance. He understood why after she added: “…Mr. Bond.”

His cover was blown!

Immediately, Bond spat out the rose, uncaring of where it landed, and took charge of the dance.

The Fräulein faltered as he yanked her closer and changed direction. 

Each step fell perfectly into the rising staccato rhythm of the accordion from the speakers.

“What is Blofeld planning? Tell me!” he growled at the woman. There was a flash of fear through her eyes, before she smirked again.

“I shall tell you nothing!” she jeered, and Bond felt the cold sting of steel bite through his kilt hose, as Fräulein Bunt wound her leg around his in a classic tango move.

That whole time the Fräulein’s shoes had been hiding sharp blades in their low sensible heels!

Bond would be impressed if he weren’t so enraged.

The music quivered on a high note; Bond pushed the woman away from himself forcefully, twirling her as she went.

In the background, he could hear Blofeld’s twelve unwitting helpers begin to clap, impressed with the passion of their performance.

If only they knew!

He wished he shared their enthusiasm, but he was already beginning to feel the effects of the poison from the Fräulein’s hidden knife. He had to finish the dance, and get away to the kit of universal anti-venoms Q had given him for the mission in Japan.

Bond jerked his arm, and sent Fräulein Bunt staggering into his arms again.

“Does he know who I am?” he hissed. As he grabbed her neck, he revealed the poisoned tip on his signet ring.

The Fräulein’s eyes widened, but she remained silent.

“Does anyone else know?!” He pressed the ring closer, threatening to cut through skin.

“No, it was only I who recognized you. I was KGB,” she rasped, signing her death warrant.

As the last tones of the tango from the speakers trailed off, Bond dragged Fräulein Bunt forward into a passionate kiss, jabbing his ring into her jugular as he went.

“Oh no, she has fainted!” he joined his voice to the other shocked gasps and shrieks of dismay from the girls.

Irma Bunt sagged in his arms, insensate, never to wake again, and James Bond had no way of knowing that with that one tango he had just saved the life of his future wife.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what, guys, I like this. I've just edited it some, and


End file.
